Monday, November 5, 2012

Fireflies of World War II

A long-a$$ f*cking time ago, in a town called Kickapoo, there was a TV show that blazed like a fiery comet in the night - until it was snuffed by ungrateful fans and terrible support by its network home.

Firefly was Joss Whedon's unique vision of science fiction, and probably the very best science fiction series since The Next Generation. If you're into Sci-Fi at all, and don't mind the kind of smart humor that is Whedon's trademark, you owe it to yourself to watch the Firefly TV-Series and the following movie "Serenity". Those that know will agree. Those that don't know need to change that.

About two years ago, I tried to apply as a writer to an online MMORPG focused on the tank warfare of World War II. One of the application requirements was a WWII tank short story, and during my research into the subject I came upon a variation of the venerable Sherman Tank - nicknamed "The Firefly".

I never finished my application. Instead I wrote a piece of Firefly Fan Fiction, with a somewhat familiar crew in somewhat unfamiliar circumstances...

„We cannot get out,” the dark voice said, ominously. “A shadow lurks in the dark. We cannot get out. They are com-“
“I
swear, by all that is holy,” said another voice, less ominous, but
impressively irritated, “should those words escape your mouth one more
time, I will personally stuff your entire being into the breech, fire
you towards the Jerries and take my chances with a court martial.”
“I
would like to think you’d receive a medal”, said a third voice, this
one belonging to Trooper “Chaplain” Book, the crew’s loader.
“Not
unless he dies, I won’t”, complained Sgt. Malachi Reynolds, his words
still heavy with irritation. “He survives, they’ll probably take me to
The Hague. Crimes of War against the Germans, and all.”
“Now why would I do that?” asked the owner of the first voice in a slightly teasing tone.
“Do what now?” asked Reynolds.
“Survive.” said Trooper Wilbur Washburne.
“Just
to spite me. Now shut up. There’s shadows lurking in the dark.” Despite
his gruff voice, Reynolds’s mouth was grinning beneath the binoculars
as he scanned the countryside for German tanks. Washburne, annoying wise
cracks notwithstanding, was arguably one of the best drivers of the
War, and Reynolds was, for the most part, lucky to have him.
Unfortunately, their Firefly Tank was in no condition to drive. Even
worse, Washburne had been right. They could indeed not get out.

It
had been one of those things that shouldn’t happen in real life. 15
hours ago, their troop came under artillery fire. Encased in their
hull-down position with earthen berms on all sides, they were not free
to maneuver, and it had cost them. One shell came close enough that the
ensuing explosion knocked off one of their tracks. Only seconds later
another shell hit directly from above, impacting just aft of the main
hatch. It was a dud. And still it did enough damage to take them out of
the fight. It was a dud, it struck like the fist of God and by rights
they should all be dead. Yet, locked in his tank with three other male
human beings of questionable body hygiene for almost 15 hours now,
Reynolds debated if he should indeed be grateful.

On impact, the
shell had bent the entry hatch beyond repair, then continued downwards
and embedded itself in the bustle, the armored box that had, until
recently, housed the tank’s radio equipment on the back of the turret.
They were immobilized, trapped and cut off from communications. And when
the dust had settled, they found out they were alone. The rest of their
troop had by now moved into their new positions further south, near a
small French village overlooking (French) Interstate 158, and with
intermittent fire still coming from the German Artillery, nobody would
come looking for them for quite some time. It had been too long already.

“Mr.
Cobb. There’s an awful amount of quietness emitting from your station.”
Reynolds remarked, still surveying their surroundings.
“Ain’t
nothin’ to shoot, ain’t nothin’ to talk about.” Trooper FC Cobb, the
crew’s gunner, replied darkly. Cobb, maybe not the brightest crayon in
the box but easily the most colorful; was one hell of a marksman, but he
wasn’t prone to conversing about the finer things in life. As Cobb
liked to say: ”Too hard to talk over the shootin’.”
“He just warms my
heart. Doesn’t he just warm your heart?” The soft voice of Washburn
came from the driver’s seat with an audible smirk. It was followed by
the unmistakable sound of a Zippo lighter opening.
“Could light you up, too.” Cobb’s voice was a menacing growl.
“I
believe it is the Lord’s light that guides and warms us from within. It
should be quite enough.” Chaplain Book interjected, diffusing the
situation smoothly by mentioning the Almighty. Nobody argued with the
Big Shepard. Book was a black man, and as such uncommon in tanks, but to
Reynolds and his crew that didn’t matter. He was on the crew. He had
fought and bled with his crew, and not one of them would hesitate to
give their lives for Book. To his crew, the only color of importance was
the red of their blood and the green of their uniform. Well, it had
started out as green. By now it was more of a brownish color.

“Not
to question the Almighty’s warm touch, but how about we launch some
good ol’ fashioned mortal fire into the oncoming Hunnish Hordes?”
Reynolds’s eyes twinkled as he turned away from the binoculars. He
shrugged, with a grin. “Just in case…”
The atmosphere inside the tank
changed in an instant. Gone was the laconic manner, replaced by cold
efficiency. Well, except for Washburn, who still had nothing he could do
and simply started muttering darkly in his driver’s seat.
“Target:
Six, no Seven. Look like Tigers. Some Panzers and Artillery, too. Coming
up from the south on 158.” Reynolds said, again looking through the
binoculars.
Cobb swiveled the main turret until it pointed to the south-west. “I see ‘em. Range?”
“I’d say… 2600 yards?” replied Reynolds.
“I’d say so, too.” agreed Cobb.
“Long shot. Think you can do it?”
“Vera
can do it.” Cobb said confidently, fondly patting the tank’s inside
hull. Weapons of death and destruction were one of the few things Cobb
openly showed affection for. That, and the women he preferred, the ones
that don’t mind not being asked their name or not being kissed on the
mouth.

“And yet it was you I was asking.” Reynolds voice was
calm, his eyes locked onto the distant column of approaching German
tanks. The question was not one of trivia. The effective range of the
Firefly’s 17 pounder 3-inch main cannon against the thickly armored
Tiger tanks was measured in hundreds of yards. This would be the better
part of two miles, and only a perfect hit at the joint of turret and
body would even have a chance of penetrating.
“Vera can
do it.” Cobb repeated, his emphasis on the name he had given their
tank’s main gun, indicating that she was the only questionable part of
their intended long-range attack.
“Then who are we to stand in her way. Loader, load one.”
Book
turned, took one of the Armour Piercing, Capped, Ballistic Capped
(APCBC) shells from the rack and held it in his hands for a moment. “May
the Lord guide you on your path.” he softly whispered to the shell,
then jammed it into the breech to his right. “Loaded One, ready.”
“I’ll just sit here and do nothing then.” Washburne said dejectedly.
“And
do it amazingly well despite the lack of qualification.” said Reynolds,
still staring through the binoculars. He was waiting. If he remembered
the designated alternate locations correctly, the German tanks would
pass right in front of their fellow A and C squadrons, now concealed
within the forest overlooking the road. Their commander would wait until
the Germans had come well within firing range before opening up. It
would do no good for Reynolds to spoil the surprise.

When it
happened, it happened fast. A and C squadrons opened fire and the German
tanks vanished behind a thick veil of smoke, earth and dust.
“Permission to Kill, Sergeant?” Cobb growled eagerly.
“Why, so nice of you to ask. Kill away, Mr. Cobb.”
What
followed were almost 15 minutes of one-sided excitement. Relegated to
the essential role of artillery – although Cobb’s proficiency with the
gun made it more of a sniper rifle – it fell to Book to load, Cobb to
shoot and Reynolds to call out targets, while Washburne sat in his seat,
and tried to read the loose-leafed fantasy manuscript he had bought
from some Brit writer during their short stay in England several months
ago and could not stop quoting from.

The only exciting moment
came when one of the Tigers tried to lead the German elements into a
flanking attack. The Tiger’s commander evaded the incoming attacks with
astounding skill, deftly hiding behind smoking wrecks, then popping out
to fire a few deathly accurate shots, all the while leading the remains
of his force closer towards the exposed Allied flank.
“Mr. Cobb?” for the first time Reynolds’s voice had an edge of concern to it.
“I have him.”
“Loaded, ready. Righteous.” Book had a way with words.
“Speed
about 15 miles, going north, north-east. Range… 2400 yards.” Reynolds
called out, his experienced eyes quickly evaluating the situation.
The
tank bucked, the enormous muzzle flash briefly blinding the entire
crew. The shell left the muzzle at a velocity of almost 4000 feet per
second, travelling in a shallow path from the elevated barrel towards a
spot a scant fifteen yards in front of the moving Tiger Tank. 1.8
seconds later, the shell had traversed over 2419 yards and hit the
Tiger, who in the same time had covered just these fifteen yards, right
in the weak spot beneath the turret. It plunged through the 60mm thick
armor with ease, exploding inside the tight compartments and shredding
the German soldiers in fire and shrapnel.
“I have him,” Cobb said again, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. Weapons and Women.

With
their leader vanquished, the rest of the German forces fell into
disarray and quickly followed his example of horrible death. Even their
counterattack later in the day lacked the clear determination and skill
of that one tank commander, who might have turned the tide of the battle
if not for Cobb’s magnificent shot.

After all was said and
done, Cobb claimed six kills, five of those the dreaded Tiger tanks. He
was credited with none. Apparently, the German commander leading the
flanking attempt was an infamous tanker ace with over 90 kills, and it
was decided at a higher level that the prestige of the kill would fall
to some half-blind gunner in A squadron – who happened to be the son of a
cousin of some senator or other – and not to the gunner of the outlaw
crew that accepted a black man as one of their own, claiming to have
made the shot from a ridiculous distance. But Reynolds didn’t mind. It
wasn’t his way. He had not come into this godforsaken country to become a
hero. He had come to fight a war, against the purest evil the world had
seen in his lifetime. That was the plan. And it was a good plan. Also,
he knew that Cobb would most definitely not let it go, and he could only imagine the pain that politically connected young gunner was about to be subjected to.

But
that was still days away. For now, Reynolds and his crew were still
trapped inside their tank, with nothing to do but wait for someone to
find and rescue them. Cobb had wanted to send some shells into the
French village, arguing that would surely get some attention, but in the
light of them being here to actually help those poor Frenchmen,
Reynolds thought it counterproductive. And so they waited.

“The
hatch is shut,” said Washburne in that same dark and ominous voice. “It
was made by those who smell dead, and there it will keep them. The hatch
is shut…”

About Me

A writer of tantalizing wit, yet undiscovered or misunderstood in his genius, struggling to spread his particular brand of word amongst the minds of potential minions all over the world-wide-web. Has a dog, whom he uses to unsuccessfully chat up women.